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A review by richardleis
The Killer Inside Me by Jim Thompson
4.0
Too disturbing to give 5 stars but highly recommended, if you can handle it. An incredible inside-the-head-of-a-psycho novel from 1952 that really seems to be more about the wasteland of America after World War II, beneath the fake veneer of the 1950s we think we know. And should be about this, or why would anyone write, or read, a novel with such gratuitous sex and violence against women? Don't answer that. Please. I feel dirty enough for having read it.
Not really spoilers, but below are some words on craft and construction that you may want to avoid if you want to go into the book completely oblivious:
What is most stunning to me about the book is the level of craft Thompson commands. He has the audacity to create a character who speaks in cliches, and it works! Chapter 18 is a jaw-dropping construction that begins with an exacting confession that repeats dreadfully, and Thompson seems to be enjoying slowly reeling the reader in after he has placed the fishhook in the reader's mouth. I knew what he was doing. Thompson was talking to me. HE was laughing at me! Daring me to keep reading. Admitting that he was drawing out this chapter on purpose. Stop it, Thompson! Stop it!
The book is also at times opaque; I'm not sure I understood everything. The final chapters are the least clear to me, but there are visions throughout that I seemed to be reading through dirty glasses, and Thompson put the dirt there himself, on purpose, because he knew exactly how he was going to treat the reader, and the reader was going to keep asking for it. So sick and awful. His captive audience. And then the chapter that implicates the reader directly. So chilling.
Not really spoilers, but below are some words on craft and construction that you may want to avoid if you want to go into the book completely oblivious:
What is most stunning to me about the book is the level of craft Thompson commands. He has the audacity to create a character who speaks in cliches, and it works! Chapter 18 is a jaw-dropping construction that begins with an exacting confession that repeats dreadfully, and Thompson seems to be enjoying slowly reeling the reader in after he has placed the fishhook in the reader's mouth. I knew what he was doing. Thompson was talking to me. HE was laughing at me! Daring me to keep reading. Admitting that he was drawing out this chapter on purpose. Stop it, Thompson! Stop it!
The book is also at times opaque; I'm not sure I understood everything. The final chapters are the least clear to me, but there are visions throughout that I seemed to be reading through dirty glasses, and Thompson put the dirt there himself, on purpose, because he knew exactly how he was going to treat the reader, and the reader was going to keep asking for it. So sick and awful. His captive audience. And then the chapter that implicates the reader directly. So chilling.